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“I need you to step in for me.”
“Step in for what?”
“You know how I work for the college newspaper?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I think I’ve heard it mentioned before.”
“Well, I was supposed to take photos for one of the articles we’ve been working on, but I just got a call from my daughter’s school. She’s not feeling well, and they need me to pick her up. Can you please do it?” She clasps her hands. “Pretty please? I’d postpone it, but I’ve left it for the last minute to begin with, so…”
“Yeah, sure. I can do it.” I glance toward the wall. “I have to finish those first, though.”
“That’s not a problem. Wait…” Vicky pulls out her phone, and a few moments later, my own phone vibrates on the desk. “I just sent you his info. The team has practice every afternoon at five? Six? I can’t remember exactly. Either way, you should have a few more hours to wrap this up. Just text him, so he knows you’re coming.”
“Okay, what kind of photos are we talking about?”
“Him practicing with the team and then a few shots of him by himself should do just fine. I’ll never know why they just didn’t pull some from the archive.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Before I can react, Vicky pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, Jade.”
“Who’s the—” Her phone rings, interrupting me. Vicky lets go of me and looks down at the screen.
“Shoot, I really have to go.” She turns around and opens the door, yelling over her shoulder: “I owe you!”
“Not a…” Before I can finish, the door behind her closes. “Problem,” I finish, shaking my head.
I can’t really blame her, though. Although, I wouldn’t really call us friends. Since our photography class is small, I’ve gotten to know her and discovered she’s a single mom, on top of being a part-time college student and working two different jobs. Why she thought joining the school paper was a good idea on top of all her obligations, I’ll never understand. Either way, I don’t mind helping. It’s not like I have anything better to do.
I open Vicky’s message and look at the number she sent me. It looks slightly familiar, but why… I copy the number and enter it into my phone. Only there is no need to save it because it’s already in there. Not that there was actually a reason for me to have it since I don’t talk to him.
A mistake.
“Are you shitting me?”
* * *
The sound of the whistle is the first thing I hear as I make my way toward the field. I haul my bag higher as I walk closer to the fifty-yard line where the team is currently facing off. Shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I watch as the players move almost effortlessly over the grass. The ball is tossed to Nixon, his red practice jersey clinging to his skin as he pulls his hand back, his eyes scanning the space for his players before he lets the ball fly.
My heart tightens as I watch him play, remembering the last time I came to one of the team’s practices, back when I was a sophomore in high school. I didn’t want to go. Instead, I wanted to hang out with my friends, but Mom insisted we should go and support Nixon.
Shaking my head to push away the memories, I lift my camera and scan the space through the lens, waiting for the perfect moment.
The running back carrying the ball is tackled to the ground. The whistle blows once again, and Coach starts yelling something as the players pull apart, everybody lining up on the thirty-yard line. Nixon calls out the play, and the ball is tossed to him. He holds onto it, moving into the pocket as the players shift around him, an intense look on his face. I snap a photo, and then the ball is flying. I follow its trajectory, my lens settling on the number eighty-eight, with a big golden Wentworth written in bold on his back.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch him take off from the ground, his arms wrapping around the ball and pulling it tight to his chest.
My finger presses the shutter, capturing the moment as he’s in mid-air. I lower the camera just as he starts running toward the end zone. The defense gets in his way, but he ducks to the side, changing the course to try and ditch the guy.
I move closer just as Prescott breaks away and runs toward the end zone. I try my best to avoid the action, but one of the coaches notices me. His brows furrow as he glares at the camera. “You can’t be here.”
Is he for real?
I look pointedly at the stands where girls are standing and cheering. “It’s an open practice. Besides, I’m with—”
“Smalls?” I turn around only to find Nixon jogging toward me. “What are you doing here?” He frowns. “Did something happen? Are you okay? Is Yas…”
“Everything’s fine,” I reassure him and lift my camera. “I’m just jumping in for one of the girls working for the newspaper. She was supposed to shoot…”
